Rain or not, I march. Tomorrow, that will be in the Women’s March Los Angeles.

From 1980 to 1982, I was in the flag corps of the North Garland High School Marching band. In the 1980 or ’81 football season, the band took the field at halftime in a pattering rain that turned into a downpour so hard the flag corps couldn’t lift our knees in our soaked long skirts. By the finale, we were fighting to spin double flags weighed down with water.
We left the field laughing, so baptized we even had rain under our hats.
I loved it, I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Now, I’m not thrilled about a possible rainy march, I’m arthritic in nearly every major joint, and lots of places are not-fun obstacle courses. (And it would be WORSE and it WAS without the ACA.)

But I’m able-bodied enough to still walk, mentally, the best I’ve been in a decade. I’ll honor my gratitude that I have healthcare, I’ll be a testament that ACA brought me back from the brink. I’m walking for people who can’t whatever the reason.

I’ve played mini-golf in the rain. I photographed gravestones for an article in the rain.

I bike-slogged uphill in San Antonio, in the rain, untreated arthritis and the cold making my legs ache worse than usual, in 45F, (“Uphill! Both ways!” “You had a bike?!”) with people in passing cars mocking me, so that I could keep critical psych appointments (pre-ACA, I was seen through a teaching college).

I’m marching because every damn thing about this election was garbage. Because the lying #unpresidented has drained the swamp into our country’s management. Because he colluded with an enemy of our country and human rights.
Because Black people get terrorized by our police just for being black. They get beaten, and sat on and choked and shot and killed for nothing and white people (#mostlymen) of the right status get away with everything.
Because LBGTQ people are so loathed they’re tortured, homeless, and their families will be declared unlawful. Tens of millions of dollars are spent trying to exterminate them. (Even though gay couples are quantifiably #familyvalues #goals.)
Because the Jewish family I married into is a target for Nazis that the #unpresidented has never disavowed.
Because the #unpresidented and his Swamp believe Muslims belong in concentration camps.
Because, as if our country couldn’t be any shittier for Native Americans, the Swamp wants to poison what little land they have left.
Because our human rights are being whittled away by the 1% because they look in the mirror and see garbage and think it can’t possibly be them so it must be us.
Because they really, truly want us to die.
Because #thisisnotnormal.

You can only get so wet, then you can’t get any wetter. As these things go, if this is a test, it’s laughable.
If it’s a blessing (it certainly is for California), it’s grace coming down in buckets.

I’ll be at the L.A. Women’s March, supporting my sisters, my non-toxic brothers, my non-binary all of/none of the aboves, POC, and celebrating that we’re at the beginning of the end of the theft of our democracy.

This president is not normal. This election was not normal. It’s cabinet is not normal. Don’t accept it.

I love cute things. They cheer me up, they hit me >spang< in the same place baby animals, babies, and certain colors do, I think cute for cute’s sake is a worthy goal.

This week, I’m supersonic squealing over the work of Lianne H., known on Instagram as dacraftylilninja. She’s the answer to: 1) How smol can Totoro get? 2) How many hours could I spend watching her videos?

1) So smol 2) Netflix binge-watch hours

Her work not only nails me right in my cute nerves, but also my polymer clay love, and devotion to projects with many satisfying steps. (I’m the kid who thought a model kit of a car that would have opening doors and hood and turning wheels was just right. I’m the adult who will condition, color, extrude, and apply yards of polymer clay ropes to cover an ostrich-sized papier-mâché egg.)

San-X Jinbesan tinies. Get my fainting couch, because I just can’t with this.